


Don’t Leave Me Now, You Might Love Me Back

by venablemayfairgoode



Category: American Horror Story, American Horror Story: Murder House
Genre: Angst, F/F, Fluff and Angst, Friends With Benefits, Mutual Pining, Romance, catching feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-25
Updated: 2021-02-25
Packaged: 2021-03-15 22:47:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29691099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/venablemayfairgoode/pseuds/venablemayfairgoode
Summary: In which feelings get involved in a friends with benefits situation and you are tired of watching Billie Dean Howard walk away.
Relationships: Billie Dean Howard/Original Female Character(s), Billie Dean Howard/Reader
Kudos: 16





	Don’t Leave Me Now, You Might Love Me Back

**Author's Note:**

> Song: One Day by Sharon Van Etten

The faint sound of a soft indie song plays through the speakers in your apartment, a gentle melody that makes you think of morning walks in the springtime. A time you tend to keep to yourself, selfishly maybe, but one you treasure. You cherish those moments when you can see the world beginning to wake up around you. When spouses send their significant others off with a kiss at the front door, children tote their backpacks to the bus stop, dogs are walked, mail is delivered, life blooms. You cherish it, and when you can, you capture those moments like lightning bugs in a jar.

You lay on your stomach spread across the bed sideways with your feet hanging off the edge and the sheets twisted around your hips like an octopus. You’re opening the hatch of your old Polaroid camera when lips begin to trail kisses up your spine. Shivers follow in their wake, leaving goosebumps along your skin. “I don’t understand your fascination with that old thing,” her voice husks from behind you. Long, acrylic nails travel up your bare sides as she crawls on top of you. 

A smile plays at the corners of your mouth. “Careful, Billie Dean,” you tease without malice. “There’s a lot I could say regarding my ‘fascination’ with things older than me.”

Billie laughs, low and husky, from the back of her throat. The tingle it shoots down your body makes your toes curl. “Oh, darling, we both know the consequences of you saying anything like that.” She nips at each of your shoulder blades, one after the other. Her actions are slow and purposeful, just enough to tease you, to torment, to torture but never enough to hurt. Her nose follows a path up the back of your neck before you feel her lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Isn’t that right, sweetheart?” she asks, coming to rest completely on top of you in a pile of skin and limbs and warmth. 

Your eyes flutter closed, your hands pausing in their motions as you get distracted. The smirk you feel against your skin causes your belly to jolt pleasantly. “Do we?” you ask playfully, once you feel you can speak without your voice wavering, just to see how she’ll react. As you always do. A part of you is aware that playing with fire is a mistake, but deep down, you know it’s a mistake you will make again and again. You would withstand the heat a thousand times if it meant you could sit in her fire, let her flames consume you whole, and remember how it felt for her to burn you right up. 

Billie captures your earlobe between her teeth. She bites down gently, just once in reprimand, before letting go. You swallow the moan in your throat and go back to your Polaroid. Billie Dean loves to play games and she is infinitely better at them than you are. From the moment you met her, you were destined to lose. 

Her arms come up around your neck, cheek brushing against yours as she settles her chin on your shoulder. You can feel her eyes following the movements of your fingers. “Tell me,” she demands quietly.

You hum. “Tell you what?” 

She pinches your hip playfully and smirks to herself when your body jerks beneath her. “What’s so special about this camera? You know phones do it better, right?” 

You huff, throwing her a look out of the corner of your eye. “Yes, but phones are so impersonal.” You pull out the old film cartridge and throw it on your bedside table, sliding a new one in place and securing the hatch. “If you take a picture with this, you’re in the moment. You’re a part of it.” You raise the camera above your head, just enough to get the right angle. “You get one shot and you have to make it count.” You look at the camera and click the shutter release button. There’s a whirr as the picture drops free and slides through the slot. You grab it and give it a few shakes, before turning and showing it to Billie. “One shot, one memory. Right here.”

She hums, a peach colored nail tracing the edge of the photograph. “It _is_ a nice picture,” she admits. Your triumphant smile lasts only a few moments before she speaks again. “Until it gets destroyed or lost or tossed in the garbage.”

You roll your eyes and snatch the picture back, holding it protectively against your chest. “That’s why you take care of the things you love, Ms. Howard.” You miss the adoring smile she gives you as you look fondly down at the picture in your hand. Your heart blooms in your chest. You’re smiling at the camera, the light in your eyes bright like the happiness inside you is bursting at the seams and nothing could quite possibly put out your fire. Your gaze slides past your own face, drawn to Billie always, no matter where or who you’re with. She is your sun and you will keep looking no matter how much it hurts.

While Billie always takes your breath away, you think she looks her best like this: make-up free, disheveled hair, and bare shoulders. She’s smiling, that real smile she reserves for those moments when she’s away from the cameras and her nose crinkles ever-so-slightly at the corners. It makes her eyes shine, beautiful and bold and adoring, where they look into the camera’s lens. But she’s not looking at the camera.

She’s looking at you.

–

The bed jostling underneath you is what rouses you from your deep sleep. It takes you a moment to orient yourself before you breathe in through your nose and stifle a yawn against your pillow. Cracking open your eyes, you sleepily lift your head and take a peek around the room. There’s a sliver of light filtering through the crack beneath your bathroom door. You lay your head back down and listen to the sink run in the background. The sound of Billie in your apartment, existing in the same space as you, fills you with a warmth that causes you to doze off.

You manage to open your eyes again when the sounds of rustling and movement perviate the room. “Billie?” you call sleepily. 

“Shh,” she soothes you softly, brushing your hair back with a slender hand. “Go back to sleep, sweetheart.”

“Where‘re you goin’?” you slur after opening your eyes and catching a glimpse of her fully dressed in last night’s clothes, purse in hand.

Her nails trace the outline of your neck before she dips her head and presses a kiss against your forehead. “I have to go, baby. I have a show to film in the morning.”

You hum sleepily, leaning into her touch where her nails scratch gently at your scalp. “Stay,” you whisper, your tongue not obeying your mind to be quiet and let her go.

“I can’t, sweetheart. I’ll call you later, okay?” 

You withhold a sigh. “Okay,” you say even though you’re not sure you believe her.

With one more kiss pressed to your head, she turns to go. You watch through bleary eyes as Billie Dean Howard once again walks out of your life. You try to ignore the sinking feeling in your chest, but the weight is an anchor and you feel it so deeply.

–

You shuffle through the junk mail you pulled from your postbox, hovering in front of your own apartment door like you’re waiting for someone else to invite you inside. You’re lost in your own head, stuck in an endless cycle of trying not to think about Billie Dean Howard while simultaneously doing nothing _but_ thinking about her. 

You knew getting involved with her would only end in heartache on your part, that you were nothing more than a passing fancy, a distraction she entertained only when she was in town. But the moment you met and she looked at you with those eyes and that smile, you knew you were done for. You knew from the beginning that you would give and give and give until there was nothing left for her to take. 

_That’s okay_ , you decide internally for it’s easy to have resolve when she’s not in front of you. When you’re not inhaling her perfume or touching her skin or hearing her voice purr sweet nothings into your ear. _I don’t need her._

“Well, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes?”

You freeze in place, heart thumping a steadily growing rhythm beneath your rib cage. Turning your head, you find Billie standing behind you, one hand holding her purse and the other a pair of sunglasses that probably cost more than you earn in a month. An acrylic nail traces the edge of one lens, a rouge pink color that matches her sweater and the floral pattern of her dress. You raise your gaze to hers and feel your breath hitch when your eyes meet.

“Cat got your tongue, sweetheart?” she purrs, her lips twitching into that familiar smile, part seductive, part amused because Billie knows she holds the entire world in her hands and uses that power to her advantage. 

“Hi, Billie,” you manage to say, inwardly cursing yourself as the resolve you previously had drains from your body and all that’s left is the desire to curl into her warmth and call her home.

Billie steps closer to you, backing you up until you feel the cool surface of the apartment door against your back. “I missed you, darling,” she murmurs, her breath warm against your lips as she stares into your eyes with an expression that makes your knees particularly weak. You want to believe her. You want to believe that the shine in her eyes is honesty and not proof of a lie well said. You want to believe, but you don’t and you can’t. So you kiss her.

She kisses you back feverishly, pressing against you in a way that allows you to feel every part of her and you want nothing more than to peel her out of her clothes and feel her skin beneath your hands. You push your tongue into her mouth, wanting to taste, to consume, to worship. To get on your knees and beg her to love you. But you can’t and she won’t. So you keep kissing her.

She smells of expensive perfume and cigarettes. You breathe it in like one would a bouquet of flowers and wonder if it will ever be enough. There’s a soft thump as something is dropped to the floor before you feel both of her hands cup your cheeks and pull you impossibly closer. You cling to her, tightening your grip on her hair. A hum passes from her mouth to yours and you have never felt so high in your life. She is a drug and you are addicted.

You can’t help the whimper that escapes your lips when Billie pulls away, her chest rising with each heavy breath she takes and you watch it with half lidded eyes, consumed by lust and love and want and need.

She throws a glance over your shoulder at the door behind you. She doesn’t linger there, returning to you like you might disappear if she stops looking into your eyes for more than a moment. Her thumb trails along your jaw causing you to arch your neck and lean into her touch. You bite back a whimper, trying and failing to quell the heat inside. Her words come and when they do, they are a slow, gentle rasp that causes your stomach to ache pleasantly. “Can I come in?” she asks.

You barely manage to nod, vaguely aware of her stooping to pick up her purse from the floor as you struggle to find the right key with your shaking hands. She pulls you into another kiss, open mouthed and heady, while you put the key in the lock and give it a twist. As you open the door and Billie guides you backwards into the apartment, as your hold tightens on her hair, as your breath mingles with hers and it feels like you are not two souls anymore, but one, you realize, with a pained lurch of your heart, that you _do_ need her. And how you hate to be wrong.

–

“So how are things?” Rina gives you a curious glance over the rim of her coffee cup, one dark brow arched.

“Fine,” you answer, shrugging and absentmindedly leaning your chair back on two legs. To avoid her knowing gaze, you observe through the window as people meander down the sidewalk, passing by the coffee shop where you and your friend sit. It’s only mid-morning, but the weekend has coaxed most people outside and into the city. They rush around in groups and pairs, tugging on scarves and talking on cellphones. You watch as a little boy darts down to the toy store a few shops away much to the chagrin of his parents. A small smile pulls at your lips as he gestures excitedly to the display he can see behind the glass.

Rina’s voice comes abruptly from the other side of the table, breaking the easy silence that had settled like a warm blanket between you. “Where’s your camera?”

You shrug again. “What do you mean?” you ask even though you know. 

She gives you a chastising look. “You know what I mean. Any other day, you’d have that old polaroid glued to your hands.”

“I don’t know,” you say, the tips of your fingers tracing the rim of your coffee cup. A couple walks by your window, holding hands and cuddling close in the cold autumn weather. Two men, one shorter with blonde hair and a kind face, the other older and distinguished with grey at his temples. You find them lovely. The younger man’s scarf suddenly comes loose, blowing behind him in the chill breeze. His partner gives him a fond look, reaching over and tucking the garment more securely around his neck. The younger man grins, dimples appearing in his cheeks, before he leans up and kisses his lover on the tip of his nose. The older man smiles and you can see the years disappear from his face as he looks at his lover with stars in his eyes. _Click_ , you think. “I just haven’t been taking pictures lately,” you respond finally. You try to ignore the jealousy rearing its ugly head inside of you, the envy you feel for something you never had. Something you couldn’t call yours in the first place.

“What’s going on, Y/N?” Rina sits up and ducks her head to meet your eyes. “What ever happened to Miss Hollywood?”

You snort. “Nothing happened to _Miss Hollywood_ ,” you answer casually, as though you haven’t been thinking about Billie Dean Howard since the day you met her.

“You sure? Because you don’t talk about her, and when you don’t talk about something, that means there’s more going on and you’re just not telling me.” Rina’s big brown eyes plead with you from across the table. You know she has good intentions, but you’re just not ready yet. How can you explain something you can barely understand yourself?

At what point in your fling with a medium did you even fall in love with her? You don’t know. All you know is that every time she walks away, you feel a little less whole. All you know is that whenever you see her smile, you can feel the cracks within you sealing like fresh cement in a fissured pavement. You know you miss her when she’s gone and she smokes in front of a window so you don’t have to breathe it in and she likes to cuddle after making love. And you realize, with a start, that you don’t remember when having sex became ‘making love’ either.

You feign a sigh. “Where did you get your Psychology degree? Because I don’t feel comfortable talking about this with someone who’s not a trained professional.”

“Y/N!” Rina gives you a gentle kick beneath the table, sounding so exasperated that you laugh, genuinely for the first time in weeks and it feels so good, you can’t believe you forgot how. The coffee shop’s bell rings and you turn to look, more out of reflex than anything, as two women stroll into the cafe. The laughter dies in your throat. _Oh._

Billie Dean stands in front of the counter, another woman at her side. She’s beautiful with high cheekbones and long, golden hair piled atop her head. They stand close, exchanging laughter and smiles, their shoulders brushing with a familiarity that makes you burn from the inside out. You clench your mug in your hands and deliberately turn away. 

–

That night, you find yourself pliant beneath Billie’s expert hands, her lips hot against the skin of your collarbone. You’re a mess underneath her, but that burning jealousy is not far from your mind. “Who was that?” You manage to gasp between rakes of her teeth against the tendons of your neck. Maybe if your head was a bit more clear, you wouldn’t have asked. Maybe if you weren’t foggy and clouded and full of so much emotion, you would be able to think straight. But you haven’t been able to think straight since you met Billie.

“Who was who, darling?” She asks, sliding her hands under your shirt and raking her nails down your sides.

“At the coffee shop-” Your breathing stutters to a stop as her thigh shifts between your legs. “Downtown,” you emphasize, tugging at her curls to get her attention, but mainly because you just need something to do with your hands.

“You saw me?” She asks curiously, but she doesn’t sound worried. The words are muffled against your skin as she trails kisses up your jaw.

“I was there-” you whimper as she bites a particularly sensitive spot “-with Rina.”

Billie hums against your neck. “That was just a friend, sweetheart. I’ve known her for years,” she explains offhandedly like you had just asked her for tomorrow’s forecast. Frustration builds inside you, but just for a moment. It’s hard to focus with the woman you love making it difficult to remember even your own name. 

“Okay,” you say even though you’re not sure you believe her. But it doesn’t matter. You tremble and shake and fall apart in her hands only for all your pieces to scatter on the ground at her feet. You know you’re going to have to pick them up yourself, but until then, you will savor this moment. The moment you made love to the sun and did not burn.

–

Your phone vibrates with an incoming call and you barely give it a glance before you answer. “Hello?”

_“Hello to you too, sweetheart,”_ a warm voice purrs in your ear. You almost drop your phone, but manage to keep a tight hold on it as you press it closer to your ear. Like if you do, you will feel Billie’s warmth.

“Billie?”

_“Who else would be calling you at two in the morning?”_ The teasing tone in her words is familiar and your heart races at the sound of it.

“Just you as far as I know,” you say, smiling into the phone.

You can hear her hum, just barely, followed by the flick of a lighter and the sound of her inhaling. _“I just got into town. My flight got delayed four hours due to some storm in the middle -of-nowhere Kansas.“_ The exasperation in her voice makes your lip curl fondly. _"I know it’s late, but I was wondering if you would like some company?”_

“Are you saying you want to see me?” you ask, feeling bold when she’s not there for you to crumble beneath her knowing eyes.

There’s a pause, just long enough for your heart to clench uncomfortably, before you hear her exhale. _“I want to see you, Y/N,”_ she says, all sincerity and tenderness. You feel like flying.

“Then come over,” you retort, warmth lacing your voice and you wonder if she can hear the love threaded inside. A sudden knock at your door has you turning from your spot at the counter. “Hold on, Billie, someone’s here,” you say into the phone before making your way over and tugging it open.

Billie smiles at you, one shoulder leaning against the door frame. She still has her phone to her ear as she meets your eyes. “Hello, darling,” she says and you realize you are soaring.

–

You always seem to know the moment she leaves the bed. The instant she moves, you’re wide awake like your body is attuned to every movement of hers. She, the goddess of beauty and elegance. You, her faithful and loyal disciple. Always.

You blink steadily at your apartment ceiling. You should just roll over and go back to sleep, but something keeps you awake. The need to hear her, maybe. The need to just feel her presence, possibly.

You listen as she moves around your bathroom. There’s the steady sound of the sink followed by cabinet drawers being opened and closed then the sink again. A car honks outside. You suddenly remember that a world exists outside of your bubble and any moment now, Billie Dean will be out there without you.

Eventually, you hear the bathroom door open and you suddenly can’t bear the thought of her leaving. You know that one of these days, you will lose all control. You will get on your knees, heart in your hands, and beg her to love you, but you don’t want that day to be today so you roll over, feigning sleep. A few short moments later, heels click on your hardwood floor. Your body buzzes at her presence as she stops at your bedside. You feel her fingers brushing the hair from your eyes then trailing down your cheek. 

Lips press against your forehead, one long moment that makes your insides clench. “Sweet dreams, darling,” she whispers against your skin. It is sweet and intimate and you wonder if she’s doing it to further convince you of the lie or if it actually means something. You tell yourself it has to be the former. 

She moves away, taking the sound of her expensive heels with her.

You listen, but you can’t watch her walk away. Not anymore.

–

“I can’t do this,” you murmur.

“What’s that, darling?” Billie asks, her back to you as she sits in front of the hotel vanity. Her hand pauses, hovering in the air with a mascara brush firmly in her grip. You can feel her eyes on you, and it takes everything inside of you not to meet them. 

Your hands grip the sheets beneath you. “I said, I can’t do this,” you repeat, stare firmly fixed on the ceiling. 

“Can’t do what?” Billie sets down her makeup and turns to face you.

“This,” you gesture at the room aimlessly. Frustration balls up in your stomach like a spool of yarn, tangled and twisted and infinite. You sit up and start reaching for your clothes, tugging them on haphazardly as Billie watches.

“Now, Y/N-” Billie begins. 

You cut her off, “No, Billie. Please.”

She pauses, eyebrows drawing together. You tug on your shoes, almost stumbling over your own feet in your haste to get out of the room. You won’t let her leave this time. This time, it will be you. Billie’s voice comes out in a croak when she speaks: “Please what?”

“Please just let me go,” you plead, the lump in your throat making it hard to speak. You brush impatiently at your wet eyelids.

Billie stands, clutching the sheer robe in her hands as she pulls it tighter around her shoulders. Your eyes linger. On the hands that held you, on the throat she had bared just moments ago as she lay beneath you, on the mouth that said things it knew you wanted to hear. “I don’t understand where this is coming from, Y/N.”

You laugh bitterly, a fire suddenly roaring to life inside of you. “Exactly, because you can’t _see_. You’re a medium and you can see things that others wouldn’t believe, but you can’t see what’s right in front of you.” You sniff, the fire burning down to embers as quickly as it had appeared. You just feel tired. You shuffle closer to the door, refusing to meet her eyes. If you meet her eyes, it will all be over and you will cave as you always do. 

“Y/N-” Billie steps forward, hands reaching out for you as if the distance between you isn’t so unbearably large. As if there isn’t a vast canyon between you, as if you aren’t more than just a speck on the other side. 

You shake your head and dart back another step. “I’ve tried,” you say, voice broken, the words stabbing you in the throat each time you speak. “I’ve tried for months, but I can’t- I just can’t, Billie.”

“Sweetheart, please,” Billie murmurs, her voice seeming to catch in the back of her throat. “Just tell me what’s going on. What don’t I see?” She sounds desperate almost, but you chalk that up to your ears only hearing what they want to hear. She’s proven time and time again that you are nothing to her but a way to pass the time. The reminder is a bucket of ice water poured over your head. It chills you to the bone.

You resist the urge to turn, to look, to comfort. “I just- I can’t keep watching you walk away. Because every time you do, you take a piece of me with you and eventually, I won’t have any pieces left.” You grab the doorknob and jerk open the door, staring into the empty hallway of the hotel. “I hoped for months that I was wrong, that maybe you could feel something for me, but it’s time that I realize it didn’t mean anything to you. I won’t let you take pieces of me anymore. I _can’t,_ ” you say, your voice cracking and hope wilting in your chest like a lone flower in the middle of the sidewalk.

You ignore the warnings in your head to run, to not look back. You chance a glance over your shoulder anyway, instantly meeting Billie’s gaze. It’s a blurry painting, but you can see the sadness in her eyes, the pain in her expression. _It’s not real_ , a part of you whispers. Choking back a sob, you gather your broken pieces, and walk out of the door and out of Billie’s life.

–

Your phone lights up with another call, buzzing persistently in your hand. 

_Billie Dean_

47 times in two days. You wonder if she’s sleeping. You remind yourself that it’s not your problem. 

Your fingers itch to pick it up. You know you should just turn it off. You know that the pain that lances through you every time her name appears on the screen isn’t worth the small victory you might feel when you see her leave another voicemail. Maybe a part of you reveled in watching her chase after you. Maybe a part of you wanted her to yearn, to feel, to _need._ Just like you. 

The other part of you, the part that loved Billie Dean with every fiber of your being, the part that bloomed like a flower in spring every time you thought of her smile, just wanted her to come home. 

You envision a world where you didn’t walk out of that hotel. Maybe you got to the elevator and maybe you turned around at the sound of your name and maybe Billie had chased you down the hallway in her sheer robe and maybe she kissed you. Maybe you made love once again with the sun rising to meet you, a new day, a new start. Maybe she asked you to stay. Maybe you said yes.

But this isn’t that world.

You turn your phone off.

–

You stand in front of your kitchen window absentmindedly blowing into your mug as you watch the sun begin its slow descent to the horizon. It’s springtime, your favorite part of the year. It doesn’t feel much like it, but the evidence is all around you. In the shade of the trees, in the flowers and the leaves, in the birds and the clear expanse of the sky. Even in the sound of children playing on the sidewalk. You wonder when you became so numb to the things you love. To the things that used to fill you with joy and warmth. And then you wonder why you’re wondering. Because you know why, but even after all this time, you find it hard to pin blame on the woman who promised you nothing. She was never yours, and she never said she would be. But dammit, you were _hers_.

You try to watch the sun set and not the street down below. You try not to notice how a woman walks by with hair a similar shade of honey blonde (too much blonde, not enough honey). You try not to remember how she once told you sparrows were her favorite, or how you can see them now as they sing and flutter from powerline to tree and back again. You try to ignore that feeling of longing you get when you hear a child’s excited squeal followed by the sound of someone laughing loudly, joyfully. You try to quell that sense of resentment burning in your chest as the world moves on while you feel stuck in a prison of your own making. You take a sip of your coffee and promptly make a face when you realize it’s gone cold without you noticing.

A sudden knock at your door has you turning on the spot. You give it a weary look, before sighing and placing your mug in the sink. You approach your door just in time to see an envelope being slipped beneath the crack. It glides across the hardwood floor and slows to a stop at your sock-covered feet. You stare down at it, too shocked to move.

It’s the loopy, elegant handwriting that catches your attention. Your heart plummets into your stomach. You bend down and scoop it up with shaking fingers. It’s a normal white envelope, a little plain for Billie’s taste, but you’d know that handwriting anywhere. It’s the words on the front that make tears well in your eyes.

_It meant everything to me._

The lump in your throat feels like it’s made of glass with the way it tears you up from the inside. You try to swallow it down. You want to feel nothing. You want to want for nothing. 

With shaking hands, you open the envelope and watch as something small and square falls out and lands in your open palm. It’s a photograph.

It’s you. 

It’s- Billie Dean’s smile is soft as she looks at you, the both of you bare, you twisted beneath the sheets and her on top of you. Your heart aches and burns and cries. You don’t know what to feel when realization hits you, hard and all at once. _I_ still _need her._ And this time, you don’t give a damn that you were wrong.

You drop the Polaroid, letting it float to the ground like a forgotten feather from a bird long gone, and speed towards the door, the hinges squeaking in protest when you throw it open.

“Billie!” You yell out, speeding down the hallway in your socks and your pajamas like a crazy person. You don’t care if the neighbors hear. You don’t care if they call the cops. You don’t care, you don’t care, you don’t care. “BILLIE!”

You dart around the corner of your hallway, down the stairs and out the front door of your apartment building, still screaming her name at the top of your lungs and ignoring the bewildered looks of your neighbors as you let the door swing shut noisily behind you. You’ve just made it on the sidewalk when you almost run directly into a figure dashing back towards the front door steps. You manage to stop yourself from colliding, swaying dangerously as you try to regain your balance. The person catches you by your shoulders, steadying you on your feet. 

You look up and instantaneously feel yourself freeze. You’re breathing heavily from the mad dash or adrenaline or fear or maybe it’s just love; love for Billie Dean Howard and want for her too. 

Dark brown eyes the color of molasses look down at you fondly. “Hi, sweetheart,” she murmurs, her voice husky and warm and if home is a person, you know it’s her. It has to be. Because your heart has never felt at peace as it does in this very moment, with you in her arms, your face in her hands, and your fingers threaded in her hair.

“You’re here,” you whisper. You savor the moment, watching as her nose crinkles when she smiles, her eyes warm and tender in a way you have never seen before. The tips of her acrylic nails graze the skin of your cheek, gently as if she’s afraid you’ll break. _I won’t_ , you want to say. _I am whole._

“Of course I am,” she says back, just as soft. “Where else would I be?”

And there, in the springtime, with children and parents shuffling around you as they return home for the day, with dogs getting their last walks before bed, with street lamps buzzing, with life in bloom all around you, you finally feel complete. And there, in the middle of the sidewalk with sparrows singing a song from the trees above you, in the protective circle of her arms, you are home. 

And there, you kiss her.

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally posted on my Tumblr, so feel free to come hang out (@venablemayfairgoode)


End file.
